A moving truck is parked in the driveway, its back gaping open. Boxes are stacked on the porch, labeled in sharpie: KITCHEN, BOOKS, Y/N’S ROOM — FRAGILE.

Through the screen door, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla drifts out. An elderly woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a loose bun hums along to a Motown record playing from a small radio on the counter. She’s rolling out dough, flour dusting her apron.

Outside, the street is quiet. A kid on a bike coasts by, disappearing around the corner. Somewhere, a dog barks lazily.

Tomorrow is the first day of school. A fresh start in a town that feels frozen in time.